Surviving
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Two years after the events of the finale, Cuddy sees a mysterious man in a diner window.
1. Chapter 1

**So I wrote this story as a favor to a friend who is convinced that House dies after the finale. I see things different, partly because I truly believe that House is a survivor. This is a little different from my other fics: While it's told from Cuddy's perspective, it's really about House, and how he survives and why. It's a love story, because it always is with them, but not quite a romance. Just be prepared. (I hope you still read it, though!). I'll be posting it in two parts. Look for part 2 tomorrow. -atd**

"Look how cute they are together."

Cuddy and her friend Peg were sitting on a bench, watching their daughters in the playground. Right now, the two little girls were huddled in the sandbox whispering intently to each other.

"I always wonder what they're talking about," Peg said. "They seem so deep in conversation."

"Probably glitter," Cuddy suggested. "Glitter is very big in Rachel's world right now."

"Or ponies," Peg offered.

"Rachel is more of a unicorn gal herself."

And they both laughed.

It had been just over four years since Cuddy had moved to Portland and she had to admit, she was bordering on happy.

Rachel was thriving as a second grader at the Starshine Elementary and Cuddy was settled into her job as the Chief Medical Officer of Portland General. She'd be lying if she said she didn't miss New Jersey sometimes—the people in Portland were almost _too_ nice—but for the most part, life was good.

"So are you still seeing that guy?" Peg asked leadingly. "What was his name again?"

"Larry," Cuddy said. "His name was Larry. And no, we broke up."

"Damn, I thought that one had potential."

"Yeah, me too. But I found myself literally nodding off when he spoke. That's probably not a good sign, right?"

Peg laughed.

"Probably not."

She gave Cuddy a reassuring pat on the arm.

"Oh, Lis," she said.

Cuddy shook her head in a "whatchya gonna do?" sort of way, shrugged.

Just then, the two girls came charging over to the bench.

"Mama, we want ice cream!" Rachel said.

"With sprinkles!" her friend Posey agreed.

"And _this _much whipped cream!" Rachel said, spreading out her arms.

Peg looked over at Cuddy, wrinkled her nose.

"I'll be a horrible mother if you will," she said.

"We're such suckers," Cuddy said.

Peg gestured across the street, where there was an old fashioned diner—the kind that served root beer floats and apple pie with slices of American cheese on it.

"We could go to the HoneyPot," she said.

Cuddy glanced over. Then did a doubletake. There was a shadowy figure in the window, a tall, thin man looking into the park. She blinked. But when she glanced back again, the man was gone.

"Lisa, what's wrong?" Peg said. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

Lisa shook her head, snapped out of it.

"I . . .just had a touch of déjà vu," she said quickly.

"I hate when that happens," Peg said, collecting Posie's things. "Is there any medical explanation for that?"

####

By the time they got to the diner, Cuddy had forgotten all about the man in the window.

Okay, she didn't exactly forget. But she convinced herself that her mind was playing tricks on her. There was no man in the diner. And if there was, he certainly looked nothing like her dead ex boyfriend.

But the following weekend, she was at the park again and stole another look at the window.

And there he was again, staring back—his face almost obscured, but his posture and bearing unmistakably familiar. The man got up from the table. Not in an alarmed way, but calmly, slowly. And then he was gone.

Now she was truly freaked.

Of course, dragging Rachel to the diner was out of the question. For starters, Cuddy was clearly losing her mind—she certainly didn't want to pull Rachel into her delusions. And besides, Rachel didn't even know that House was supposed to be dead. They hadn't spoken about him in years.

But she took a long lunch the next Tuesday and drove to the HoneyPot, sat in the same booth where she had seen the mysterious man.

The waitress, a pleasantly plump young woman, already a diner-lifer in-training, handed her a laminated menu.

"I'll be right with you, hon," she said.

Cuddy glanced at the menu. She wasn't particularly hungry.

The waitress came over. Her name badge read "Rose."

"You know what you want, sweetie?" Rose said.

"I'll have the Dieter's Delight," Cuddy said—cottage cheese and a fruitplate. "And a cup of coffee."

"And that's how skinny girls stay skinny," Rose joked. "Sure I can't get you anything else?"

"No," Cuddy hesitated. "But I do have a question."

"Shoot."

"Do you work on weekends by any chance?"

"Yeah, mostly Saturdays."

"And is this your regular table?"

Rose gave her a curious look.

"Mostly I work this section," she said. "Why?"

"I saw someone I thought I recognized. An old friend. He was sitting at this booth, on Saturday. Tall guy? Blue eyes? Handsome in a craggy sort of way?"

"You mean Greg!" Rose said.

Cuddy's heart began doing flip-flops in her chest.

"Greg," she said. "Yes, that's his name. Do you know his last name?"

"Afraid not, hon."

"Does he come here a lot?"

"He's a regular customer. Usually comes on Saturdays—for a late breakfast. Around 11 am." Exactly when Cuddy usually took Rachel to the park.

"Do you know anything about him?"

Now Rose looked at her suspiciously.

"I thought you said he was your friend."

"To be honest, he's an ex boyfriend," Cuddy said. "I haven't seen him in years. I didn't even know he was in town."

Rose seemed satisfied enough with this.

"Yeah, he works over at the Applied Physics Lab. They say he's some kind of genius."

At this point, Cuddy literally felt like she was going to pass out.

"One more question," Cuddy said. "This Greg fellow. Is he handicapped? Does he walk with a limp?"

Rose laughed a bit.

"A limp?" she said. "No, honey. He's as able-bodied as you or me."

#####

That night, Cuddy did a Google search for the University of Portland Applied Physics Lab.

They were in the news quite a bit, as it turned out. The team was developing a revolutionary new prosthetic that completely mimicked the human leg or arm. It was activated by a chip implanted in the brain. It looked, felt, and moved like a real limb—even toes and fingers moved independently. The hand could grip and write; the leg could run and even dance (a ballerina who had lost a leg in a car crash was given the new prosthetic. Now she was back to doing pirouettes). The team was short-listed for the Nobel Prize in Physics.

There were several articles and each had a picture of the Research Team—lab coats and glasses, proud grins, holding up their inventions. And each time, the same small note on the caption: _Not Pictured, Greg Overleve_.

Two days later, Cuddy scribbled down the address and drove to the lab.

There was no formal reception area. Just an open space filled with scientists—several hovering over a microscope; a few tinkering with a robot; a few more playing some sort of 3-D video game. No sign of anyone who looked like House.

_This is madness_, Cuddy thought to herself. _He's dead. He's not working in a laboratory in Oregon._

But she had to know.

"Excuse me," Cuddy said, walking up to a young woman with long straight hair, who was writing data on a clipboard as she watched a mouse spinning on a wheel.

"Hang on one sec," the woman said. She looked at her watch. "Eight hours," she said.

"What?"

"Myron has been on that wheel for eight hours. We're testing the effects of a new kind of human growth hormone. He shows no signs of tiring."

She smiled put down her clipboard.

"What can I do for you?"

"My name's Dr. Lisa Cuddy," Cuddy started. "I'm the Chief Medical Operator over at Portland General."

"Jane Owens," the woman said. "Nice to meet you."

"I'm looking for someone who works here: His name is Greg?"

Jane broke into a grin.

"You know Greg?"

Then she addressed the room.

"Hey everybody. This woman knows Greg Overleve!"

A set of curious eyes now focused on Cuddy.

"He's such a man of mystery," Jane explained. "Barry over here thinks he's a superhero. You know, genius physicist by day, crime fighter at night."

Barry turned a bit red. "I don't really think that," he said.

"We're. . .old friends," Cuddy said. "We've lost touch. So . . . is he coming back soon?"

"Not today," Jane said. "He only works Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays."

"Where does he go those other days?"

"Underground crimesolving cave, I'm sure," one of the other men said.

There were laughs.

"Shut up!" Barry said, grinning.

"I think he has some other job," Jane said uncertainly.

Cuddy pulled a picture she had saved of her and House together, a candid of the two of them at a party. It was one of the few she still had of him. (She'd destroyed most of the photos after "the incident"—but she somehow couldn't bring herself to throw this one away. They were sitting on a couch together. House was saying something to her and she was throwing her head back and laughing. It was back in the beginning of their relationship, when they were completely besotted, when they literally couldn't get enough of each other.)

"Is this the man you call Greg?"

Jane took the picture, then looked back at Cuddy incredulously.

"What? You guys were married or something?"

Cuddy began to shake.

"So this is definitely a picture of Greg?"

"Yeah," Jane said. She just kept staring at the photo. "He looks so happy. It's weird." Then she looked back up at Cuddy, with heightened curiosity. "How long did you say you guys were married?"

"I didn't. We weren't married. We, uh, dated for a year. It ended. . . badly. Do you happen to know where Greg lives?"

Jane shook her head. "No clue," she said.

Then Jane looked at her watch.

"Shit! Hold on one second."

She turned back to Myron, who was still running on his wheel.

"Atta boy, Myron!" she said, scribbling something on her clipboard. She turned back to Cuddy.

"I'm sorry. You were saying?"

"Do you have a phone number for him?"

"Phone number? Nope. I don't think so. Have you tried Human Resources?"

"No. . I. . ."

Cuddy had the sudden thought that poking around Human Resources, asking about the mysterious Greg Overleve was not a wise move, for anyone.

She pulled a piece of paper out of her purse, wrote a note, folded the paper.

"Can you get this to him?" she said.

Jane took the note.

"Sure," she said.

Cuddy was quite sure she would read the note, maybe even share it with the team, so she had kept it very short on details.

IF IT'S REALLY YOU, MEET ME AT THE HONEYPOT DINER. YOUR BOOTH. 3 PM ON FRIDAY. - C

And now all she could do was wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**And here it is, the sure to disappoint you all second and final part to my story. As I said yesterday on Twitter: The advantage to my short attention span: Two fics a week! The disadvantage: I don't often have the patience to develop an idea. So to those who think SURVIVING should be a much longer fic. I feel your pain. But think of all the pretty new fics I'll write! xo, atd**

It could all just be a weird coincidence, right? A guy who looked a bit like House, first name Greg, who _happened_ to be a genius, who _happened t_o be working on a program in the very field that had defined—and haunted—his entire middle-aged life, who _happened_ to spend his Saturday afternoons staring at her through a window across the street from the park.

Absolutely. Just a coincidence.

She had almost managed to convince herself of this fact when a man appeared in the doorway of the diner. He was on time. She had been early. (Somehow, she felt a need to be seated when "Greg Overleve" re-entered her life.)

It was really him.

Less hair, a few more lines on his face, eyes as impossibly infinite and blue as ever, no cane, as Rose had said. He looked older, but strangely somehow more. . . robust? He actually looked quite well.

He saw her, swallowed hard, and sat across from her. She noticed that he wasn't limping at all.

He looked at her cautiously, still not sure where they stood.

"You fucking piece of shit," Cuddy said.

So that answered that.

"Nice to see you, too, Cuddy," he said.

"I thought you were dead."

"I am dead, technically. The Artist Formerly Known as Gregory House no longer exists."

"I mourned you, you asshole."

"But not enough to come to my funeral, apparently," he said.

"Fuck you," she said. Her eyes flashed. "Fuck you. You don't get to tell me how much I mourned you."

"I'm sorry," he said, chastened a bit.

"So spill it, House. I need to know how you went from being a dead guy to sitting across from me in a diner in Portland."

He studied her face—seemingly marveling over her presence.

"How are you?" he said quietly.

"No," Cuddy said, a bit angrily. "We don't get to exchange niceties until you fill me in on the last year and a half of your life. Talk."

"I don't know where to begin," he said, honestly.

"Start with your death," she said. Then shook her head over the absurdity of that sentence.

"A ruse to avoid jail time—long story. And then Wilson and I took off on a road trip."

"You went on a road trip with a man dying of cancer?"

"A last hurrah of sorts," House said. "It was great. We were like a couple of outlaws. How would you live if you truly weren't guaranteed a tomorrow? Wilson crammed 10 years worth of living in those four months. And then. . ."

"He got too sick."

"Yeah," House said, looking at his hands. "I dropped him off at his parents' house to die. But before he died he did two things. He gave me a shitload of money—seriously, a shitload. And he. . ." House looked up at her. "Made me promise I wouldn't off myself."

Cuddy nodded, understanding.

Just then, Rose appeared at their table.

"Hiya Greg," she said to House, flirtatiously.

"Hiya Rose," he said back, charmingly.

"The usual?"

"I'm nothing if not a creature of habit," House said.

Rose smiled.

Then she turned to Cuddy. "So you found him, huh?"

"I found him," Cuddy said.

"Dieter's Delight?"

"Just coffee and whole wheat toast," Cuddy said.

Like all good waitresses, Rose was good at divining the mood of the table. She saw that something heavy was going down.

"I'll be right back with your order," she said, and scampered away.

"Go on," Cuddy said. Her voice was still somewhat cold, which seemed a little harsh, in light of the death of his best friend. But House had ruined her life—twice (first by crashing his car into her house; then by "dying" before they could even make peace with each other.) He deserved a touch of coldness.

"So, there I was, with all this money. And no identity. And no medical license. And no friends. And no. . . girl." He looked up to see if that got a reaction from her. Nothing. "So I started thinking about what the hell I was going to do with the rest of my life. And I wanted to kill myself, believe me I did. But a promise is a promise, right? So that's when I started thinking about my leg."

"About amputation?" she said.

"Not necessarily," House said. "Not yet. I was thinking about how much my leg hurt, actually. My vicodin supply was running out. And then I thought, fix yourself, you asshole. Or, if I couldn't fix myself, I figured maybe at least I could help some other poor schmuck in the future. So I started looking into programs that were doing stem cell research. I was still thinking regeneration, not amputation. And then I found out about the Portland Applied Physics Lab that was doing a lot of work with robotics and prosthetics."

"Just coincidentally where I had been living for the past three years."

"Not strictly a coincidence," House admitted. "More like a happy accident. Let's just say it was an. . .incentive."

Rose returned to the table, carrying a tray.

"Here you go, honey," she said, placing a stack of pancakes and a side of bacon in front of House.

Cuddy almost smiled. She used to make him turkey bacon when they were dating, much to his loud objections. He called it a "desecration of nature."

She spread some strawberry jam on her toast, admittedly enrapt by his story.

"So. . .I went to the lab. I lied and said I was a researcher from an online science magazine. They were all too happy to show off their progress. I started asking a lot of questions. They liked my questions. I began spending more time there. Eventually, they started asking _me_ questions. They liked my answers. At some point, it was clear that I was taking a lead role in the research. And I guess they kind of . . . hired me." He shrugged.

"But what made you decide to amputate your leg, House? That was always the thing in this life you feared most."

He played with his food, not really eating it.

"I was curious," he said. "I wanted to see if the brain implant really worked."

She shook her head. In the end, the scientist in him won out over the man who feared so many things, most significantly change.

"And now look at you," she said. "I'd never know you only had one leg. Not in a million years."

"You ain't seen nothing," House said, with a tiny smile. "You should see me play basketball."

"Shut up!" Cuddy said loudly, despite herself.

"No, it's true. Wednesday night pick-up games with a couple of guys from the lab at the 9th Street Y. You should come watch one day."

His enthusiasm was touching.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Cuddy said.

He nodded.

"I have a few more questions, if you don't mind," she said.

"Just a few?" he cracked.

Somehow, the lighter tone to their conversation had improved his appetite. He wolfed down a large bite of his pancakes.

"How'd you get the new name, the new identity?"

"Greg Overleve," House said. "From the Danish for. . . "

"To survive," Cuddy said.

House looked at her, impressed.

"Just a little joke to amuse myself," he said. "Anyway, I managed to get a driver's license, a passport, even a credit card. They're not that hard to get, if you've got a little money and you're willing to—"

"I don't want to know," Cuddy interrupted.

"Probably for the best," he agreed.

"And what do you do on Tuesdays and Thursdays?"

"Wow. You _have_ done your homework."  
"They told me at the lab that you had a second job."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said.

"Try me."

He made eye contact.

"I volunteer at the Northeast Free Clinic."

She snorted.

"Now I _know_ you're lying."

"It's true," he said, laughing at her shock.

"But doing what? You didn't buy a black market medical degree, did you?"

"No," House said. "Let's just say I'm working off the grid."

"But how can you even write prescriptions?"

"A very understanding colleague of mine loans me his prescription pad," House said. "Which is a much less risky proposition these days, now that I'm off drugs."

Cuddy shook her head in amazement.

"But clinic patients are boring. It's all runny noses and venereal disease. You _hate_ clinic patients!"

"Turns out I missed being a doctor," he said, almost embarrassed by the disclosure. "Go figure."

Cuddy shook her head.

"Last question . . .for now at least," she said. "How long have you been spying on me? And do you know how creepy that is?"

He sighed, scratched his head a bit.

"About a year," he said. "And yes."

"So why do it?"

"I needed to see you. To make sure you and Rachel were okay. And to . . . remind myself of things."

"What things?"

He hesitated.

"Who I was, what I lost—how badly I had fucked up my former life."

She nodded sadly.

"Not everyone gets a second chance, Cuddy. I'm lucky. I want to make sure I don't make the same mistakes twice."

She was quiet for a while, allowing herself to process everything he had said.

"You've changed," she said finally.

"Really? How so?"

"You have two things you never used to have: Humility and. . . optimism."

"I'm humble because I hit rock bottom and had no place to go but up. I'm optimistic because you're sitting across from me at this table."

"I honestly don't know how I feel about any of this, but I'm glad you're alive, House," Cuddy said.

He blinked at her gratefully.

"You look so beautiful," he said.

"No," she said, sternly. "Not what I meant."

"I'm not hitting on you," he said.

"Then what are you doing?"

"Marveling over my dumb luck. You're in front of me. You're talking to me. We're sitting here—together."

"For now," she said.

"Whatever you give me, it's more than I deserve," he said.

They were both quiet for a minute.

"I need to process," she said.

"Of course," he said. "Take as long as you want. I'm not going anywhere."

"How can I be sure?" Cuddy said.

"Be sure of what?"

"That you're not going anywhere? You have nothing to anchor you here."

He looked at her.

"Of course I do."

#####

Three weeks later, she was compelled by medical curiosity (or so she told herself) to attend one of his Wednesday night pick up games.

It was a bunch of guys—most younger than House, a few she recognized from her visit to the lab: All pale as ghosts, knock-kneed, hardly awe-inspiring physical specimens.

She sat alone in the bleachers, watching him before he noticed her.

He was wearing his prosthetic—you could see it was not real flesh. It was hairless, for one thing—and didn't reflect the light the way his real leg did. But that was only because she was looking closely. For all intents and purposes, he looked like he had two good legs. In fact, depite his advanced age and disability, he was the only real athlete in the group. He moved, ironically, with more fluidity than the rest of them—he could run, he could pivot, he could jump.

She was reminded, suddenly, of watching him play lacrosse back at Michigan. She would sit in the bleachers then, too—lusting after him. She would marvel over his ropy muscles, his ease in motion, the way he ran like a gazelle.

She was having this thought when House looked up and noticed her. His face broke into a huge, almost goofy grin, then he stole the ball from an unsuspecting player and galloped down the court for an uncontested lay-up.

For a second, her happiness for him almost overwhelmed her. For more than 20 years, his body had been a cage. Now, he was finally set free.

She hoped that he couldn't see she was crying.

House played the rest of the night like a man possessed—swatting balls out of mid-air, running all over the court, shooting long-range three pointers. He was playing so hard and so well that he was getting on the nerves of his opponents—it was a friendly game, after all, they never got super competitive.

"What the hell is up with you, Overleve?" one of the players said.

And Barry, the guy from the lab, gestured toward Cuddy in the stands.

"He's showing off for his lady," he said.

After the game, she waited for him in the parking lot.

"You're still here!" he said.

He approached her happily. He was wearing a white button-down shirt and a pair of jeans. He smelled clean, of soap and shampoo.

"That was amazing, House," she said.

"You should probably call me Greg from now on," he said quietly. "Just to avoid confusion."

"That's gonna be tough."

"But still probably easier than Overleve," he said.

She laughed.

"Fair enough."  
He looked at her.

"So. . .you enjoyed the game?"

"It was incredible. What you've invented. What you've done. It's going to change lives."

"I know it's changed mine," he said.

"You're still a good athlete," she said. "I'd forgotten."

"I'm the Michael Jordan of pencil-necked geeks," he said.

And they beamed at each other. They had been slowly moving toward each other as they spoke. They were now standing mere inches apart.

"Nice game, asshole," someone said. It was one of his opponents leaving the gym. He swatted House playfully on the ass with a towel.

Then a teammate came out.

"You going to kiss her, Overleve, or what?" he said.

Suddenly self-conscious, House stepped away from Cuddy. He looked down, semi-bashfully.

The players all filed out and the parking lot cleared and then House and Cuddy were standing there alone.

"I should probably. . ." Cuddy said, cocking her head toward her car.

"You want to, um, maybe go for a drink?" House asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

She was more tempted than she was willing to admit.

"No," she said. "It's getting late. Rachel's over at the neighbors."

"Okay," House said. "Thanks for coming. It meant a lot to me."

"House, I'm happy for you."

"I'm happy for me, too."

And she reached up and gave him a hug. It was meant to be casual, maybe the start of a new kind of uncomplicated friendship between them, but suddenly, inexorably her mouth found his and she was giving him a soft, lingering kiss.

She wasn't exactly sure why she had done it: A heady mix of the nostalgia from seeing him play, genuine relief that he was alive—thriving even—and, of course, the same reason she always kissed Gregory House: Because she couldn't help herself.

He stared at her dumbly. His mouth was open.

"I'll be in touch," she said, getting into her car. "Don't come looking for me, okay? I'll find you."

"Okay," he managed to choke out.

######

"Why do you keep looking at that diner?" Peg said.

They were sitting in the park a few Saturdays later, watching Rachel and Posie play on the monkey bars.

Cuddy turned back to her, hastily.

"I. . .wasn't," she said. (There was no figure in the window this time. House had heeded her words. He hadn't tried to contact her.)

"If you want another ice cream sundae, I'm sure the girls wouldn't object," Peg cracked.

Cuddy smiled, then grew thoughtful.

"Peg, do you think people are capable of change?'

"Of course they are!" Peg said, as though it were a silly question.

Cuddy laughed.

"You seem pretty confident about that. I know someone who's equally confident that the opposite is true."

"That's a pretty cynical point of view."

"He's a pretty cynical guy. Or at least, used to be. Ironically enough, he's the one I think might've changed."

Peg peered at her.

"Who are we talking about here? An ex?"

Cuddy started a bit.

"How did you know?"

"Your whole demeanor changed when you were talking about him. What's the story?"

"He's living here in Portland. I just found out."

"And?"

"And. . .I've been thinking about him. A lot."

"Is that bad?"

Cuddy sighed.

"I don't know. He was the one, Peg. The love of my life and it's not even close."

"I don't see the problem here."  
"It ended badly, to put it mildly," Cuddy said dryly.

"As in: Cheated on you?"

Cuddy gave an ironic chuckle.

"I wish it were that simple. Let's just say he hurt and betrayed me—more than I've ever been betrayed."

"_Physically_ hurt you?" Peg said, concerned.

Cuddy looked down.

"Not quite. But he almost did. He was out of control, on drugs. . .He's clean now."

"And you really think he's changed?"

"I don't know, Peg. Maybe I just want to _think_ he's changed."

"If you love him that much, maybe it's worth finding out."

######

"At this clinic we practice something called triage," House was saying. "That means, I don't treat in the order that you came, but in the order of how sick you are."

It was a Tuesday at the Northeast Clinic and House was working the morning shift.

He surveyed the room, stopping in front of each patient.

"You have allergies."

"You have a really unfortunate looking rash."

"You . . ." He looked again. "Are faking it. Go to school."

"You have a toothache and should probably be at the dentist's, but I'll give you some painkillers before you leave."

"You. . ."—a pretty, teenage girl—"I actually have no idea what you have?"

"The, uh, condom broke," the girl said.

"Ahhh, Planned Parenthood. Take the No. 8 bus."

"And you. . ." A middle-aged gentleman. "Cough!"

The man gave a phlegmy, loud cough.

"I don't like the sound of that. Congratulations, you're in second place. Tooth boy is first. Follow me, Gummy."

"You run a tight ship, doctor."

House looked up. It was Cuddy. She had been standing in the doorway, watching the whole performance.

"Cuddy!" he said. "I didn't see you there. Hi!"

"Hi," she said back. "You need a hand?"

"A hand?"

She rolled up her sleeves.

"Yeah, turns out you're not the only one who misses being a doctor. We administrators never get to lance a boil or take a stool sample or have any fun."

He looked at her adoringly. A man in love. Still. Always.

"Take Bronchitis Bill," he said, gesturing toward the hacking guy.

"Imagine that: You and me doing clinic duty together," Cuddy marveled. "Feels just like old times."

"Yeah," House said happily. "Just like old times."

THE END


End file.
